"I thought I'd ha' to die without this," said Barnabas. "Now—I am content."

He was sitting on the bench under the narrow barred window, which was high above their heads. The winter sun was setting through a lifting haze of fog; it threw a faint red gleam on the stone wall, and touched the heads of the man and woman who were making love in the condemned cell. Is there any place, short of the grave, where men have never made love?

"Hush!" said Meg. "We have met life, not death, to-day."

The last occupant of this place had been hanged, the next poor wretch would be waiting execution. The thought struck coldly on her.

"Oh, Barnabas! I have never feared death before," she cried; "for I did not understand what life means." And the preacher, looking at her, knew she spoke truth. This vivifying passion had sent a stronger tide through her veins. Happiness, new-born, was in her face, and the fresh wonder at that everlasting miracle which changes our water into wine.

"All the world seems new!" cried Margaret. "But other people have to die. And some of them never know what this means; and some, knowing, leave it all behind. Barnabas, to-morrow you will be free, and I shall be by your side, and all the happiness that is ours shall make us strong to help. I will help as I never did before!—Oh, I am so sorry for them."

"Ay, sweetheart; ye may well be that," he said.

The minutes were flying by. He must tell her. Her head was on his shoulder, her hands were in his,—hands so delicate that one of his held both. He remembered how their smallness had touched him, long ago.

"I ha' ta'en ye by rough ways, an' ye'll ha' a hard time; though I meant to shelter ye all I could." The pain in his voice made her cling closer to him.

"It is my turn to say to you, 'It is worth while,'" she whispered. "What does it matter now how rough the road is? we will tread it together."

"But, if we are not together? My little lass, if we are not together? Will ye say that then? It is true! Ay—God help me—I believe it; but will ye think so too?"

"Whatever comes now, I will think so too!" said Margaret. She smiled as she spoke, ominous though his words were. She forgot to be afraid, in her womanly longing to comfort him.

"What do you think is coming? Do you fancy that the verdict will go against you?" she asked steadily. "But that cannot be! Would He desert you?"

"No," said Barnabas. "Not though the sky should fall, or I forget ye." And he put the last as the more impossible marvel of the two.

"But there's no want o' faith in believing that one may ha' to leave one's body behind a bit afore the natural time. I've som'ut to tell ye, Margaret. It's best to face it. I'd liefer ye heard it now, than to-morrow i' th' court."

"Go on," said Meg. And with his arms round her he told her. Meg listened silently when he described his interview with his enemy. "He must ha' overhauled my things somehow, though I doan't know how he got hold on 'em," he said. "Ye see that must go against me. I can't explain it." He spoke steadily, and not despairingly,—he had conquered his despair. The fight had been fought; the "black minute" was at an end for him. It might be hard,—harder than the actual wrench of parting soul and body would be,—to part from her; but he could do it now. To relinquish Meg unwon had indeed taxed severely the fortitude of the man who had once told her that he desired no peace in heaven, unless she were happy too; but this love, awake at last, he believed to be his now to all eternity; and, indeed, with an "all eternity" in view, they might well afford to lose a few score years.

"I don't understand," said Meg, in a voice she tried to keep from trembling. "Mr. Sauls found the diamonds in your cap. Ah, I let that drop with the other things I was bringing you, and he must have picked it up. He saved me too. One would rather not be saved by such a—oh well, it isn't worth while to think of him with you beside me; but how did the diamonds get there?"

"They were hidden by the man who knocked Mr. Sauls down and robbed him," said the preacher. "I was a fool, Margaret! The man told me where they were, an' I thought it was just a mad fancy. It never came to me to take my knife and rip up the lining; I just shook it, an' seeing naught, flung it in a corner where it stayed. Ye see, I didn't wholly credit his story. It was all so mixed up wi' delusions. One minute he was seein' Mr. Sauls' double at th' foot o' his bed, beckoning him to hell, an' th' next he were raving about diamonds bein' on fire an' burning him, an' the next he were pouring out such sickening confessions as I think the devil himself must ha' been prompting his tongue to. No man could ha' committed all the sins he told of. An' the longing to deliver him fro' Satan was strong on me, an' he kind o' clung to me, as if he was bein' hunted, an' I promised him I wouldn't betray him. One can't allus be thinking what 'ull be the consequences to onesel' when a poor soul turns to one in mortal terror."

"And you will keep your promise at any cost to yourself—and to me?" said Meg.

"Little lass, ye wouldn't ha' me not keep it!" he cried. He turned his head away for a moment. Was even Meg against him? Dr. Merrill had told him that he sacrificed his wife to a skulking sneak; did she think so too? He looked at her with an involuntary sad entreaty that none but Meg had ever seen in his eyes.

He was used to being considered rather mad. Truth to tell, being in a minority troubled him little as a rule; but, for once, the pain of loneliness touched him very sharply.

"Dear heart, do 'ee think I doan't care for 'ee?" he said. "I'd give my soul, if it were only that, for yours. But one must follow where one's Master calls. Would ye ha' me such a cowardly hypocrite, that having in His name bid ye give up the world for Him, I should mysel' shrink from a path where there's only room for one? Would ye ha' me break a promise, gi'en in this service, because keeping it means shame and death? Shame for ye too, for ye too! Forgi'e me, if ye can't think me right," he cried sadly. "Oh, my little lass, I wish I could bear it all! It cuts me like a knife when I think it means shame for you. It's the sore part." He caught his breath sharply, and Meg felt his arm tremble for a moment. Then: "But I'd not say that to any one else," he said. "Ye are like my own soul, an', even to you, I'll not say it again. It's a bit mean o' me to cry out so. When I took service I didn't promise to follow the Master only so long as I could on velvet. I've no need to complain; an' ye mustn't say He deserts us because He treats us like men, an' takes us at our word. Yet"—and again his face softened—"if ye could think with me—but, happen, that's ower much to expect."

His voice, ringing with the eager loyalty which was so large a factor in his religion, then breaking into human tenderness, ceased. He could not see her face, for she sat with it hidden against him. He touched her fair head gently, with his hand. "Poor little lass!" He could not put into words the remorseful tenderness he felt. He hoped she would not try to dissuade him; it could make no difference, but he found Meg's grief hard to bear.

"Happen that's ower much to hope for?" he said again softly, but with more wistfulness than he knew. "But I'd like ye to forgive me, Margaret, any way. Will ye do that, if ye think me wrong?" His voice sank to a whisper she barely caught. "The temptation was sore, but if I'd loved ye less it ha' been stronger; for I'd not ha' felt it so shameful then to drag that love i' the mud. Margaret, say something to me."

Then she lifted her head and answered him—such an answer as no human soul had given his before.

"You are right!" she said. "Except that you ask me to forgive you. Forgive what? Shame? I am not ashamed. Do you think I shall not be prouder of you than if all the world were at your feet? I have never been ashamed of you. Never once! Even when I didn't love you, I knew better than that! Ashamed! I will try to be a little sorry for the blindness of all the people who did not know you innocent, who cannot tell light from darkness! if you like, dear,—if you like—but there is no shame for you, or for me, who am yours."

Ah, had ever the condemned cell echoed to such words before? such passionate vibrating love, and pride of love?

"If you had betrayed a man for me, then you might have said, 'forgive me,'" she cried. "But you couldn't do that; you would not be you, if you did! The Barnabas I love could never do it! Yes, then I should have been ashamed—bitterly ashamed, perhaps. Then our love would be in the mud indeed. Not now!"

"I allus knew ye a brave woman, my lass," said the preacher. "Happen I never knew it quite enough!" But Meg clung to him again, choking back a sudden desire to sob.

"Ah! but we shan't be parted!" she cried. "It can't be! it can't be! Barnabas, say to me that it can't be."

"Ay, wi' all my heart," he said. "Margaret, I believe, as I believe in my God, that no pain nor death can part us two for ever. It can't be! Ye are mine now. By the love God has given me for ye, an' by the love ye bear for me, my sweetheart, I'll swear to ye that I hold the old enemy not strong enough to part us. It can't be."

But, for all the hot love in them, his words went through her like a sword: he was bidding her look to the life everlasting, when she wanted him here, and now. They both sat silent for a few minutes, precious minutes! how fast they went!

"I had so much to say," he said. "I'd a deal to tell ye; but, somehow, I can't remember it now. I want to hear ye say once more, 'I love ye'. I've wanted for it so long! Nigh on two years I've hungered for it. An' I've not pressed ye, have I, Margaret?"

And there came across Meg as he spoke the remembrance of those two years. How many times had he crushed back this deep, fierce love for fear of "scaring" her, cold-hearted as she had been? And now, perhaps, there might be only minutes left to give in, though there had been months in which to deny.

"I love you," she said. "With all my soul and heart and mind and strength; with all of me there is; with more of me than I ever knew there was. I didn't know I could love like this. As you love me, I love you, my dearest. You are more to me than all in heaven and all on earth besides. I would rather die with you than stay here without you. Ah, how feeble one's words are, for, of course, I would rather! that would be easy enough. If I have to live without you, I am still yours. While I am, I—I love you. If this can die, there is no life that lives! It is the most living part of me. If this grows cold, then I am dead. Barnabas, I love you, I love you! Do you know it now?"

"Time's up!" said the doctor, putting in his head. "Have you brought him to his senses at last, ma'am? I hope so."

She stood outside again in the snow. The doctor was talking eagerly.

"I am convinced that your husband is keeping something back," he said. "He knows more than he will say. I hope you have preached a sermon to-day to good purpose. He won't listen to mine."

"I told him he was right," said Meg; and the doctor swore.

"Then, let me tell you, you've encouraged him in a most immoral course," he said, "and in one that leads straight to the gallows! It's no time for picking one's words—and—well, here's the truth. You had a chance of saving him, if any one had,—which I doubt, for a more pig-headed saint I've never come across—you had the only chance. You might at least have tried; and you've lost it!"

In his heart he was saying angrily, what did she suppose she had been smuggled in for—to talk sentiment? If Thorpe had married some lusty, rosy-cheeked barmaid, she'd have been of more good. She would have cried heartily and scolded; his high-flown nonsense wouldn't have had a hearing; it might have been swamped in her tears and in his natural instinct. Mrs. Thorpe's eyes were dry. Pshaw! she was only half a woman! He hadn't an exalted opinion of the other sex anyhow; but, at least, he preferred them "womanly". Little fool! if she couldn't cry on occasion, what was she capable of? He couldn't quite say that aloud, though. Meg was no barmaid, and not an easy person to be rude to.

"I am very grateful to you for letting me in," she said. "I think my husband is right, so what else could I say? But, if I had thought him wrong, I could have made no difference, practically—only," said Meg softly, "it would have been rather harder for him."

"Rather harder! he'll find being choked out of life with a rope rather harder; but you know your own affairs best, I suppose," said the doctor. "Good-night, ma'am;" and he turned away, and Meg walked on alone.

"He'll find being choked out of life rather harder!" Meg felt as if Doctor Merrill had roughly shaken her awake. When she had been with Barnabas his unwonted appeal for spiritual sympathy, his faith in the undying quality of their love, his belief in the impossibility of an eternal parting had somehow hidden from her the physical horror of such a death. The doctor had brought it before her, had made her see the rope and the coffin, and the actual death struggle. She saw it so vividly, poor woman, with that over-vivid imagination that had always been her bane, that, as she walked, she held out her hands instinctively.

"Don't, don't!" she cried. "He has been hurt enough. I can't bear him to be hurt any more!" She did not know that she had spoken aloud, till some one passing put a hand on her arm.

"Mrs. Thorpe! may I see you home? You are ill, or very unhappy."

It was the parson from Lupcombe, the preacher's friend. Meg, standing still, recognised him.

"Did I say something?" she asked. "Yes—I am unhappy; but you can't help me, thank you. Don't try to, please. Only God can help."

The parson, looking at her, bared his white head.

"It is true," he said. "There are times when only He can help." And he let her go, but went on his own way with a sigh.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" he said to himself. "Saints are all very well, but they've no business to marry."

The interruption made Meg aware that she must have been looking rather strange. Tom would see at once that she had had bad news, and she could not tell him yet. She wanted to collect her thoughts, to repeat to herself what Barnabas had told her, coolly, without his over-strong influence, that made her see everything just as he saw it. Coolly! but the time had passed when Meg could think coolly of suffering to him.

A church door stood open (oddly enough, for the church in those days, except at stated times of service, was harder to enter than the prison). The darkness and silence invited Meg. She turned into it, thankful for a quiet place to hide her troubled face in; and walking up the aisle, took refuge in the high curtained pew which was used by the Mayor and Corporation when they honoured St. Matthew's with their presence.

She drew the curtains close, then sat down on a hassock, and buried her face in the red bombazine cushions.

She went over the whole interview again. It was her doing that the diamonds had been found. If only she had not been knocked down and not let Mr. Sauls pick up her bundle! It was like him to take prompt advantage. While she sat in the dark, Meg clenched her hands with the wild desire to kill George Sauls. If Barnabas were hanged how could he be allowed to live? Then she crushed that mad anger down again; it was her fault. She had persuaded her husband to come to London. She had left him alone while she nursed her father, she—what had the doctor said? She had lost the last chance of saving him, but that had not been from want of love. In her soul she knew she had never loved him more than when she had told him he was right. She knew it; for it was his soul hers loved,—a disgrace that touched that would be disgrace indeed.

"And yet—ah, it isn't only that," sobbed Meg. "Barnabas may go on loving me in heaven; but I want him, spirit and body both, on earth."

She clenched her hands, and pressed her face down on the cushion, struggling with the sobs that rose in her throat. Alas! it did not comfort her to think of a disembodied spirit, however perfect, when she was longing for her own living husband. She loved his faults as well as his virtues; she loved him wholly and completely—as he was: the accent with which he spoke, the very look of the brown hands toil-roughened. In the mortal agony of that parting, visions of heaven would not support her womanhood. "God have mercy on us, have mercy on us!" cried Margaret. "Have mercy, Thou who hast made us what we are! who hast given us souls and bodies both."

She must not fail him in any case; that thought braced her again. If the worst should happen, she must be by him. Could she bear to see it? Meg asked herself, and found the answer clear enough. Yes, she both could and would—and she would have no tears then.

"But oh, if it might be that I might bear it all!" she cried in her heart, with the cry which is old as love itself.

"Lord, let the pain be mine—if only my darling may go free!" Deepest, most fervent prayer of all humanity!—prayer that seems as if it must pierce the veil and force an answer, that is born of our holiest instincts, and has in it the sacrifice that is in motherhood;—prayer that how many women's lips have prayed since the beginning of the world!

"Mine be the pain! Ay; and the sin and the shame too," we cry, knowing that the cry is futile; for who shall deliver his brother? Surely love has been crucified since love first was!

"Ah, it is no wonder, no wonder that God died upon a cross," thought Meg; "if He loves as we love, where else could our God be?"

"If you ask my opinion, I should say that you had better put up a triangle," said a decided voice at the far end of the church. The vestry door slammed, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs—quick brisk footsteps—treading over the "Hic Jacets".

"Mr. Muller says that a cross is popish; and you think the commandments Low Church, don't you? or is it old-fashioned? Well, try a triangle. It won't mean anything. Now, that's an advantage to start with; you can't quarrel so much over a purely secular symbol."

"Now, Mr. Sauls!" (a giggle), "if you say such things, I declare we'll set you to work as a punishment. Isn't Mr. Sauls too bad, Ethel? Oh, there comes Mr. Simkyns at last. Please light the candles, Mr. Simkyns."

The speaker was a plump bright-complexioned girl, who, with her sister, stood, with arms full of holly, looking over the berries at Mr. Sauls, who, however, had not the least intention of being beguiled into assisting at Christmas decorations, an amusement not at all in his line.

"I came to find an entry in the register for 1802 that bears on a case I am interested in," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your good work; and, since you won't be grateful for my advice, I'll take myself off."

"Oh, we are only going to sort the ivy and holly, ready to begin to-morrow. It was all in a heap in the vestry. We hadn't an idea you were there, had we, Ethel? But we'll forgive you this time; you may stay, if you like."

"Ah, thanks; but I won't put your generosity to too severe a test," he rejoined drily.

The candles were lighted now; the quiet solemnity of the place was gone. On one side of the red curtains a woman in bitterest agony had prayed for her husband's life; on the other, the girls laughingly pricked their fingers with holly leaves, and tried hard to flirt with Mr. Sauls.

"Mr. Sauls doesn't believe much in the generosity of our sex; do you, Mr. Sauls?" said the second girl, with another giggle and an upward glance.

"Pardon me," said George, "I've the most exalted reverence for it; that's why I refrained from putting it to vulgar proof. It is always unwise to test one's pet ideals; the results are apt to be disastrous, particularly to men of a naturally quixotic and sentimental turn, like myself; I never do it, on principle. That's why I've arrived at mature age with all my little high-flown illusions so intact. You wouldn't like to upset any one's principles, would you, Miss Miller? No, I thought not. Good-evening then."

Miss Miller, during this speech, had looked as if she were not quite sure whether she was expected to laugh or not. At the last words her face fell; she threw the holly down pettishly as Mr. Sauls left the church.

"What's the use of going on? I hate Christmas decorations! And I've pricked myself," she cried. "Oh, what's that?"

She gave a little shriek, as the red curtain was pushed aside.

"I beg your pardon. I am afraid I have startled you," said Meg gently. "I did not know that any one else was in the church when I came in. I came to—to rest. I am going now."

"We will go; we have disturbed you; I wish we hadn't come in and chattered and laughed," cried the girl impulsively. She was very soft-hearted; and this pale fair woman somehow impressed her, she hardly knew why, with a sense of tragedy. "I am so sorry, but we'll go. Come, Ethel, let's go."

But Meg had already walked quickly down the aisle, and opened the church door. In the act she looked back at the two bright-faced girls clinging together, still a little startled, under the candles, with the scarlet berries at their feet.

"No, don't be sorry," she said. "I am very glad you came in, for now I know what to do. You needn't be sorry; but I should put up a cross if I were you, even though it means a good deal."

The church clock was striking the half-hour, the lamps were lighted; it was too cold to snow hard, but a few fine, powdery flakes were falling from the unbroken yellow-grey sky. Meg was just in time to see Mr. Sauls turn the corner of the street. She followed him, running at first; then, when she was within a few yards of him, walking again, keeping the same distance always between them. She would not speak to him in the street; she remembered too vividly how she had repulsed his offer of help. She knew he would remember it too; he was not the person to forget it. She meant to follow him home, where he must listen to her. She did not consider what argument she could use; she did not even think how terrible a thing it was to ask a favour of this man of all men. She only knew that he could prevent Barnabas from being hanged, and that when she was pleading for her husband's life she should know what to say.

Mr. Sauls went straight back to his rooms, Meg following him. Sometimes people came between them, and she momentarily lost sight of his high-shouldered, thick-set figure. At those moments a nervous agony of fear would take possession of her, as if she had indeed lost the "last chance," and seen him disappear with that same precious life in his pocket. Her pride was not so much consciously renounced as absolutely burnt up in the flame of her love. As Tom had remarked long ago, "Barnabas' wife couldn't do anything by halves". She was one of the unfortunate people who must give "full measure running over," if they gave at all.

They went through miles of streets. George wondered afterwards that he had not felt her behind him. When he reached his rooms, she waited a minute to let him get in first; then rang. The servant who opened the door looked doubtfully at her. His master had the strongest objection to begging ladies; he had got into trouble only last week because he had let in a sister of mercy with a pitiful tale.

"I don't know that my master is at home," he said, "but I'll go and inquire. What name shall I say, miss?"

Meg hesitated a moment; it was possible that Mr. Sauls might refuse to see her. "Mr. Sauls is at home," she said, "and he will know who I am." And the man, after another prolonged stare, let her in.

They crossed the hall, and he opened a door on the right. No one was in the room; but a huge fire was blazing, and a swinging lamp that hung from the ceiling by silver chains was alight. A great tiger skin was stretched in front of the hearth, an armchair was drawn up on one side of it.

Meg stood leaning against the mantelpiece and waited.

It was a luxurious room—the room of a rich man, with a good idea of comfort. All the chairs were delightfully easy, the carpet was thick and soft, the light arranged with a view to reading and writing comfortably. Artistic it was not, and there was no bric-À-brac, and there were few books about.

Over the mantelpiece was the picture of an undraped nymph, lying on soft cushions in a bower of roses. A rounded-limbed, sensuous beauty, with velvety eyes half closed. The petals of the roses rested on her warm skin.

George's sister made a great many jokes about that picture, and called it George's ideal woman.

Meg, in her shabby black dress, looked whiter than ever as she stood beneath it tensely waiting.

There were groups of wax fruit (not remarkably well done) about the room too. Meg, had she seen them, would have guessed why she had got such remarkably good prices for her work; but she saw neither the fruit nor the picture—she saw only Barnabas and Newgate.

"What an ass you are, Lucas!" said Mr. Sauls, his voice sounding in the hall. "Go and tell the young woman that you know I am out on the best authority, for that I have just told you so myself."

A pause, and a deprecatory murmur from Lucas; then: "Would come in? The devil she would! These begging ladies deserve a snub. It's another Quakeress. Oh, very well, I'll tell her myself that I am out; and I don't think she'll do it again." And Meg heard his footsteps crossing the hall.

She pictured the imaginary Quakeress come to beg of George Sauls, and pitied her, imagination working in a curiously independent and rapid way, as it does in moments of suspense. Poor Quakeress! How could any woman stoop to beg from this man? Unless, indeed, it were a woman whose husband might have the life "choked out of him," and who was past caring for aught else!

What would he have said to the Quakeress? Would she have worn a bonnet like Mrs. Fry? Would Mr. Sauls have made her feel very hot and shy and ashamed?

The door opened. Meg stood quite still, keeping her eyes on the fire. She would let him get over his astonishment, for she knew he hated being surprised. He held the handle in his hand for a second; he didn't exclaim, but there was a moment's breathless pause. This woman, standing sad and pale under his Nymph of the Roses, was quite the last he had expected to see. Then he shut the door firmly behind him and came forward.